


Recombination

by diabolica



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Florence Arc, Hurt/Comfort, Miscarriage, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabolica/pseuds/diabolica
Summary: Bedelia gets into bed, staying on her own side, lying on her back with her eyes on the ceiling. "I appear to be having a miscarriage," she says.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47
Collections: Hannibal Bingo





	Recombination

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my [Hannibal Bingo](https://hannibalbingo.tumblr.com) card, for the prompt "hurt/comfort".
> 
> Kisses and cookies to the one and only [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr), who beta-reads for me even when she is super busy.

Bedelia rises in the dark, slipping out of bed hurriedly and moving away without turning on a light. Something—a book?—thumps to the floor. Hannibal perceives this sound and motion as he wakes, together with a scent on the air like violence enacted. He turns on the light and sees her for just a second before she passes through the bedroom door. 

There is a dark stain on the back of her nightdress and it is spreading. 

Alert now, he turns to her side of the bed where she has thrown back the duvet. The sheet is stained a bright, oxygenated red. The clock says it is just after two.

Hannibal gets out of bed, following the path she took to the bathroom door. There are drops of blood on the floor. He tries the door, but she has locked him out. His physician's mind runs over all the reasons a woman might begin spontaneously bleeding in the middle of the night.

"Bedelia? Are you all right?"

"Yes." Her voice sounds even, no trace of panic.

"You're bleeding," he says.

No answer. The door remains closed.

After a moment he asks, "Do you need anything?"

"No."

He gets a cloth from the kitchen, wipes up the blood on the floor. Out of habit, he treats the stains on the bedroom carpet. He can hear her running a bath. He strips the sheets off the bed, treats the stain on the mattress, rinses the blood out of the sheet in the kitchen sink and puts the sheets in the washing machine. 

Silence from the bathroom. 

He lays a towel over the still-damp spot on the mattress, puts fresh sheets on the bed. Then, because she has still not emerged, and because he doesn't know what else to do, he gets back into bed. An unpleasant sensation has lodged itself just under his solar plexus, and it takes several minutes to identify it as he lies there waiting: helplessness.

It is after three when she finally emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her. Bedelia goes straight to the dresser without looking in his direction. She removes several items and returns to the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her. Minutes later, he hears the bathroom door open again, hears her walking into the kitchen. She returns to the bedroom barefoot, wearing clean pyjamas, her face flushed from the heat of the bath. She looks tired, like a woman who has been woken in the night for no happy reason, but otherwise fine.

She stops beside the bed. "You changed the sheets," she says.

He nods.

"Thank you."

"Are you all right?" he asks again.

Bedelia gets into bed, staying on her own side, lying on her back with her eyes on the ceiling. She says, "I appear to be having a miscarriage."

He waits to see if she will say more. When she doesn’t: "I didn't realise that was a possibility," he says, truthfully. It wasn't something he had considered until now.

"Neither did I."

"You never men—"

She cuts him off. "Neither did you." Bedelia turns her head towards him then, eyes hard, as if daring him to lay this responsibility on her. He carefully backs out of what he was about to say. He turns his body towards her, holds out his arms. She hesitates only for a moment before she allows him to pull her close. She lays her head on his chest and he exhales.

"How long have you known?" he asks.

"Couldn’t be sure. I missed a cycle last month, but that's not unheard of."

Hannibal hears what she has not spoken, _at her age_. True, these things are delicate, uncertain. The human body is as much mystery as ascertainable fact. Doubt is not the same as knowledge. 

Yet Bedelia has a scientist’s curious, pragmatic mind. And tests from the pharmacy, he knows, are inexpensive and accurate. Bedelia would know that. She would have wanted confirmation, wouldn’t she? Of course she would. She would have confirmed. She must have known, and said nothing.

He does not ask why she didn't mention it, why her drinking habits haven't changed. What was there to say? Knowledge is not the same as acceptance. As a surgeon he has witnessed it. As a therapist he's seen the minefields that can be laid between couples. As a man, however, her silence stings.

He will set that aside for the moment. "Are you in pain?" he asks. He can feel her body wound tight against him; she must be in pain.

"Yes. I took some paracetamol." Her voice is as measured as always. They might be discussing the weather.

"You're sure it's a miscarriage."

"Yes," she says flatly, as if to remind him that she is also a doctor. Then, in a more conciliatory tone she offers, "It's happened to me, once before. I was 22. It was a blessing, then."

"And now?"

A short puff of breath, almost like a laugh. "What else could it be, Hannibal?"

Nettled, he asks, without thinking, "Would it be so bad?"

"In this situation?"

"The circumstances may not be ideal ..." 

She doesn’t lift her head, doesn’t look at him, but she reaches for his hand and laces their fingers together. "They are as far from ideal as it is possible to be," she says slowly. 

That might be overstating it, he thinks. But she is right, of course. Leaving aside their legal situation, they would be very mature parents. Still, for a moment he can imagine himself wearing one of those baby carriers, as he's occasionally seen young fathers wear, a plump blue-eyed baby strapped to his chest. He pictures little bespoke suits or dresses, coordinating ties or hair bows. The thought makes him smile. 

Bedelia would chastise him for indulging his whimsy and he likes the feel of her hand in his, he likes the weight of her body, warm and alive beside him, so he doesn't speak it out loud. He can acknowledge it for what it is: a thought exercise. Not something that will permanently alter his life. Their lives. 

Their life.

"We've been reckless," he says.

"We have."

They will have to be more careful from now on. Bedelia is naturally much less impulsive than he is. Hannibal decides he doesn't want to consider what her recklessness in this regard might mean.

He chooses his next words with care, knowing she might take them the wrong way: "Perhaps it isn’t right to say so, given the circumstances … but if I were to have one, I would want my child to have a mother like you." _Brilliant,_ Hannibal thinks. _Beautiful. Fearsome._

He allows himself a further thought experiment: pieces of himself mingled with pieces of Bedelia, their genetic material creating new structures of personality and intellect, coming together to form a little teacup, not reversing time but impelling it forward. It's hard not to regret that now that it isn't possible. 

Bedelia doesn't ask him to explain. Instead she says, "Thank you." She doesn't return the sentiment. He can't fault her for that.

He rubs her back. "Does that help?"

"It does," she says. "And the paracetamol is kicking in." 

He continues rubbing slow circles over her back. Her breathing gradually grows deeper, the tension in her softens.

"It'll be over soon," she says softly. Hannibal feels a little stab of something he would rather not examine.

"You seem remarkably calm about all this," he observes cautiously. 

Bedelia squeezes his hand. "It's for the best."

Again, she's right. She usually is. He holds her in silence until he is sure she has fallen asleep, then allows himself to drift off.

**Author's Note:**

> That was kind of heavy, I know. If you’ve read this far, please allow me to offer you a tissue and a cup of tea. Or would you prefer coffee? In any case, I would love to know what you thought. Comments, even the kind that tell me I’m an irredeemable angstwhore, make me unreasonably happy.
> 
> You can also follow me on [tumblr](https://plain-as-pandemonium.tumblr.com/), where I make bad jokes and reblog pretty pictures of Gillian and Mads. I sometimes post commentary about my fics, too, if you’re into that sort of thing.


End file.
